


Danger Zone

by objectlesson



Category: AFI, Justin Timberlake - Fandom, NSYNC
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover Pairings, High School, Justin fucking Timberlake, M/M, Rimming, Swim Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 21:12:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hunter worships Justin's ass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Danger Zone

**Author's Note:**

> Since the beginning of time, when there was one continent known as Pangea, I’ve wanted to write an ultra-trashy highschool fic inspired by Gwen Stefani’s untra-slashy song Danger Zone. I conceptualized of it as a Javey, as I conceptualize of most things, but recently I decided that it was better suited to the Hustin Burganlakes. There is little, if any, evidence that Danger Zone had any part on this story at all, aside from the lingering trashiness. 
> 
> This fic is weird because it’s AU and Highschool. I never thought I’d go there with this pairing, because the whole point of the pairing (aside from it being hot) is that they’re a ridiculous match, and making it AU seemed somehow pointless to me. I’m weirdly happy with the result, though. This most definitely never happened, and I don’t own them. I also don’t own the title, which is from a Wylde Ratts song.

“So, what do I have to do for you?” Hunter drawled, lounging on Justin’s mattress. He made sure to kick his feet up on the bedspread, which was white with blue pinstripes, preppy and all American. He wished he had a cigarette to light up, even though he didn’t smoke. Part of him wanted to dirty Justin’s room in some way, but because he didn’t like him, but because he was, in so many ways, _undirtied_. 

Justin’s eyes flitted down to the red chucks, dusty with blacktop, but he didn’t say anything about them. “It’s simple.” 

“Yeah?” Hunter raised his eyebrows. 

“Yeah,” Justin answered, reaching into his mini-fridge that served as a bedside table and taking an energy drink out. He cracked it open the sound of millions of tiny popping bubbles made the silence in the room not quite silence. “You know how we have to shave for swim, right?” He asked. His lips, pink and cupid’s bow perfect, rested on the rim of the tall black can. 

Hunter blinked, running his hands through his bleached blonde hair, which was tinted ever so slightly green with chlorine. Of course he knew. The only thing he had in common with Justin was swim team. That’s why it was so fucking bizarre that he got a call at four fifteen from this kid, telling him he needed a favor and it was urgent. He didn’t even remember exchanging numbers with the guy, but here he was, on his bed and wishing there was a way to leave his mark amongst so much blue white blonde sportiness. 

Justin was staying quiet, like he needed a response from Hunter to continue with his proposition. “Yeah?” Hunter threw out there, just to move things along. 

“Yeah, okay,” Justin sighed, tilting his face to the ceiling. His hand, sure and white-knuckled and beautiful, tightened on the can with an involuntary twitch. 

Hunter watched that hand, rapt. 

Maybe Justin wasn’t exactly just some random kid on swim team. More like he was the only kid on swim team Hunter knew who wasn’t a senior, because he swam like one. Maybe he was the kid on swim team that was going to be a winner with a little more training, the one whose muscles stretched naturally along his back in this unformed but promising ghost of future strength. Maybe he wasn’t smart, but Hunter kept on wondering if he was, when he watched him do the butterfly stroke gracelessly but powerfully, like an intentless storm. 

They had lunch together sometimes, waited at the bus together that week Hunter’s car was busted and at the shop. Actually, if any other kid on swim team called Hunter up at four fifteen with a mysterious urgent favor, he wouldn’t have come. But Justin was, in some inexplicable way, compelling. Maybe it was his infuriating, unshakable, scrubbed-cleanness. So here Hunter was, with his shoes on the bed. 

“Well usually I had my girlfriend help me get the places I couldn’t reach. But we broke up after last meet,” Justin explained like it was relevant. 

Hunter raised an eyebrow. “And?” 

 

“You’re like, the only guy I know well enough to ask,” he mumbled. His cheeks colored, these two sudden flashes of ruddiness. He didn’t continue, and the pieces slid together slowly in the quiet. 

“You want me to shave your ass?” Hunter asked, grinning and getting it. He sat up, crossing his dirty shoes under him and in Justin’s fancy boy sheets. The room seemed crackling in an instant, filled with unsaid words soon to be smooth skin. 

“I swear, it’s nothing gay, I just--”

“No, it’s fine. I think at some point, every dude on swim team has to get his ass shaved by someone embarrassing. Don’t sweat it. You have a razor and stuff?” Hunter asked, leaning back onto Justin’s pillows. They smelled fresh and sleepy at the same time, musky and blue like shaving cream, and then this underlying intimate smell that things got when they were drooled on, fucked on. Hunter wondered if Justin’s ex girlfriend, the one he just broke up with, had come on this pillow case before. If she’d faked coming on it. 

Justin laughed, took a swig of his drink. “See, this is why I asked you! I thought any other guy would make it weird. I thought you’d be cool about it.” 

“Those other guys are full of shit,” Hunter said darkly. 

“You wanna do it in the bathroom?” Justin asked, widening his green-blue eyes, face still pink and very young looking. Hunter shrugged, sliding off the bed. 

“Wherever you want, man.” 

\---

Hunter didn’t think it would be weird, but that was before he was sitting on a toilet he’d never pissed in before, razor in his hand and a bowl full of warm water to his left, and a bronzed, athletic, ass in front of his face, taut and expectant. He couldn’t see Justin’s face, but it had to be blushing. It had to be grimacing. Hunter certainly was, with his hand shaking and tendon-tight and not quite ready to brace itself on the curve of another dude’s gluteus maximus. 

“Is there something wrong?” Justin asked in a gruff voice. 

“Nothing at all. Just plotting my attack course,” Hunter said, nonchalance making his words almost seem scheming. He cleared this throat, took the final plunge, and aligned his thumb with the tense cord in Justin’s quadriceps. “I’ll just start somewhere less awkward,” Hunter explained, lathering up the outside curve of his right cheek, the sparse and curly golden hairs matted down in foamy white. 

The razor cut a clean line, no pinpricks of blood staining. Hunter let out a breath, and traced another path down firm muscle, rinsing hair and cream from the razor in between strokes. 

They didn’t talk, which was fine. Hunter was too fixated on the very obvious and fascinating differences between their two swimmers’ bodies to formulate small talk. Plus, small talk was a weird thing to formulate when your face was inches from someone’s ass. His grip dug into the hard place where Justin’s thigh sloped and widened into hip, and he wondered if that place was hard in the same way on him.

They were both lanky and strong, because the sport demanded it. But Hunter’s flesh was different. He was white and long and sinewy, like something hewn from marble. No matter how much he trained, he was not built to be ripped and buff. Merely quick, aerodynamic, hard-edged and blue-eyed and sharp. 

But Justin was like fucking Apollo or something. If Hunter was marble, Justin was definitely bronze, pewter, anything smooth and reflective. Every muscles on his body he was probably born with, and it was just waiting there dormant for him to do one sit up or one pectoral press so it could suddenly spring to complete, effortless perfection. His skin even seemed warmer than Hunter’s, his eyes more crystal clear, his blush pinker. Cleaner. 

Hunter shook his head, knowing full well that he was avoiding the actual ass-shaving part of this endeavor. So far, he’d taken care of the lower-most part of Justin’s back, just until it scooped in, dimpled, and curved out into glutes. Then he’d also shaved the outside of his hip, and the uppermost (though conveniently not inner) part of this thighs. 

What was left was ass, ass crack, and upper _inner_ thigh. There was still a dusting of sparse, curly hair, glinting golden in the single bulbed light hanging above them in Justin’s blue-tiled bathroom. “Uh, so, I’m gonna kinda have to get up close and personal here,” Hunter said, clearing his throat. 

The strong slope of Justin’s shoulders shrugged. Hunter wasn’t looking at the mirror, but he thought about what it would be like to catch Justin’s eyes in that reflection, and his stomach felt tight and hot. 

“Okay. I’m trusting you with a razor near my balls, so be careful.” 

“Yeah,” Hunter said, and laughed humorlessly and with a dry mouth. Then the razor dipped in warm water, a layer of white foam broken into vague, cloudy continents on the surface. 

Hunter lathered the left cheek, amazed at how fucking firm Justin’s ass was. He thought distantly back to the times he’d had a girlfriend who let him spank her, and that wobbling undulation of newly red flesh that followed the satisfaction of a resounding smack. He thought that if he spanked Justin, his hand would probably break. 

The razor cut an even line down the length of Justin’s glute, parallel to the crack. There was a tensing and twitching of muscle, and one of them made some kind of noise, the release of breath that had been held in unsureness. The tendons that ran down either wise of Justin’s spine flexed, and Hunter rinsed the razor head before slicing another parallel line, this one closer to the crevice in question. 

“Humm,” Justin said, a thoughtless noise. So it was him, after all, that was making those sounds. Hunter let out an audible sigh, to join what Justin was letting out of himself. 

His hands were shaking, and the skin was warmer and warmer the closer he got to the crack bisecting so much taut golden muscle. He allowed his thumb pull the flesh apart ever so slightly, revealing skin that was darker, more gathered and crepe-papery in its texture. Air was pushed from Justin’s lungs again, deliberately. 

And easy as that, Hunter was hard in his jeans. 

It both was and wasn’t surprising. Hunter had never been attracted to a guy, not actively anyway. However, there was something genderlessly carnal about holding a razor against someone else’s skin in places you never even thought you’d see, let alone touch. Justin’s body was a body, an athletic, hard, clean body, and Hunter was human. 

His hand was soapy and wet with shaving cream where it was spread palm-wide across the perfect angle of Justin’s ass, and it was easy to apply pressure there, just enough to let Justin know he was doing more than touching, he was feeling. He half expected Justin to whip around, those eyes narrowed to slits of ice blue and the words _what the fuck are you doing_ twisted on his pink pouty and now that Hunter thinks about it, cocksucking lips. 

But Justin didn’t. He stayed there passive, his hands braced against the edge of the counter so hard his arms were trembling, and his eyes downcast at the sink. Hunter’s dick was straining against the seam in his pants, and he wondered if Justin was hard too, if he was getting off to having his ass crack pulled apart like this, Hunter’s breath close enough to feel. 

Hunter kept his left hand tight and cupping where it was, and used the other to lather up the right cheek, his fingers kneading firmly, surely. He shaved it, his head nodding in closer with every stroke. He was sure Justin could feel him panting on him now, his lips close enough that if Justin arched his back, Hunter could kiss him right where his asscrack began. 

“You have to...you know,” Justin said breathlessly. And easy as that, Hunter knew that he was getting off on this too. The voice that came out of him was the voice of a kid with a hard on, a kid mindless with some nameless want, and someone with a mouth and strong fingers behind him, breathing. Hunter was pretty sure it didn’t matter that he was a dude, that he was some guy from swim team. Hunter was pretty sure he could get away pushing it, because they were two bodies, two humans, and humans instinctually want to get off. 

“I know,” He said, voice gruff. And then he pulled Justin apart with his thumbs, the skin so breakably soft there his dick twitched with a surge of heat. “I got you,” he added, his lips still so close. 

There was still hair there, darker and coarser and close to the perfectly folded pucker of his asshole, which was darkbrown almostpurple amidst so much gold. Hunter smeared a layer of white foam across the expanse of intimate skin, and the ring of muscle spasmed, contracted. Justin groaned and pushed out, putting himself deeper into Hunter’s hands. 

He held his breath as he shaved this part, careful not to snag on anything delicate, making sure to smooth away every last hair. Justin’s ass cheeks were firm and pulled apart, a perfect handful in each palm when he gripped him that way.    
“Am I done?” Justin breathed.

“Yeah, but there’s still shaving cream everywhere, I gotta...” Hunter trailed off and swallowed, distracted by the barely-there pump of Justin’s hips towards the sink counter, and back again. 

“There’s a washcloth under the bowl. Use that,” Justin clipped out, but Hunter already was using his fingers, dipping them into the water and rinsing the foam off. White rivulets of cream and wet dripped down the inside of Justin’s toned thighs, and Hunter caught them with the knee of his pants. His fingers were grazing along Justin’s asshole, warm and wet and wanting something, something more, something inside. Justin’s breath was a broken thing, jagged and escaping out of him in uneven bursts. 

“Is the door locked?” Hunter asked curtly. 

“Yeah,” Justin wheezed. “Yeah.” 

And then Justin kicked the basketball shorts and boxers that were bunched around his ankles to the side so that he could open his legs wider, his ass spread and bronze and glorious. Hunter let his thumbs dig into hard muscle, pulling his cheeks apart and letting them spring back into place, kneading unrelenting flesh with his forehead braced against the small of Justin’s back. The bathroom seemed suddenly impossibly small and close and hot. 

Hunter’s chin, rough with stubble, dropped slightly and scraped against wanting skin, and Justin hissed a hiss that could have been a please. There was a kiss, wet and filthy, pressed somewhere above Justin’s asshole but not quite there, and Hunter knew he was going to do it. 

He’d done it before, to girls. They all tasted lotiony and clean-sweaty but definitely, dick hardeningly like ass. Justin smelled fresh and clean and newly shaven, like soap and nothing else, so the first experimental swipe of Hunter’s tongue across the taut, longing pucker of Justin’s asshole didn’t even register as a reality. Then he was doing it again, and deeper, stiffening the muscle of his tongue to prod and invade inside of Justin, which tasted dark and musky and overwhelming in its perfection. He wanted to badly to find a place that wasn’t clean, and he wanted to touch him there. 

“Oh my god,” Justin said, tightening around Hunter’s tongue. “Fuck.”   
Hunter let go of Justin’s ass for as long as it took to reach the button of his jeans and free his dick, which sprung hot and leaking precum into his hand. Then he pressed himself, the whole of his straining shoulders and chest, against Justin’s flesh. His skin was both cool with being newly shaven and hot with being licked, and Hunter found himself groaning into the crease of Justin’s ass, drool slicking his chin. 

Justin reached behind him, grip fierce and graceless when it closed over Hunter’s forearm. He pulled Hunter’s willing hand around his body, forcing him to palm the hard plane of his thigh, and eventually, the burn of his hard cock. 

For the first time in his eighteen years, Hunter had a dick in each hand. He liked it. Justin’s felt much like his own, maybe slightly thicker, but just as hotsmooth, just as wet and searing at the tip. He found himself knowing what to do from jerking himself off, the easy slide of hand over skin rhythmic, second nature in its familiarity. Justin was thrusting into his grip and he mimicked the motion with his own hips, a unified snap of their bodies together, his tongue still lapping insistently and hungrily at Justin’s twitching asshole. 

His jaw starting to ache, Hunter pulled back to breathe, his exhalations still ragged and needy where they crashed over Justin. He marveled at the power and tension reduced to writhing bucks under him, in his hand and under his mouth and wet with his spit. Justin was beautiful, raw and scrubbed clean and smooth at the edge of a razor, but broken finally, unaware and dirtied by it. Hunter had never thought he was beautiful before, or at least not consciously. Now his stomach was knotted with this realization, with the certainty and overwhelm of it. 

“Come for me,” he choked out. “Come in my hand.” 

Justin was gasping, the cords and tendons in his perfect strong swimmer’s arms shuddering like the tide, the blonde curls on his head reflecting with a sheen of sweat in the mirror. “Put your tongue back in my ass,” he begged, and Hunter pulled him apart and pushed inside of him, tasting deeper and darker recesses bitter with shredded privacy. Then he was forced out by the sensation of contracting muscles, and his hand was boiling with hot come. 

Justin came and came silently, healthy teenage ropes and spatters of it decorating Hunter’s squeezing hand and blue bathroom tile. 

Once he was finished and crumpled, bent heaving over the counter, Hunter wasted no time standing up and struggling one leg out of his jeans. His dick was achingly hard, painful in its yearning rigidity. He wanted badly, with all of himself, to fuck Justin’s asshole, but it seemed like too much, too much effort and too much time and too much waiting and precision. He made do with pressing the shaft of his cock lengthwise against Justin’s ass, fucking the spitslippery crease with desperate, sure thrusts of his hips. He came fast, a sudden whitehotblinding burst of it on Justin’s flushed, muscled back. 

Justin let him stay there, little aftershocks nudging Hunter’s softening dick against him, their bodies shifting together easily and sealed with sweat and seed and saliva. 

Neither said anything for a long time, because neither knew that to say. Hunter kept on wondering, what do you say to a guy you thought you kind of knew after you’ve been proven wrong, eaten his ass, and come on his back? Words seemed incomprehensible, every language another language. 

“Uh, thanks?” Justin eventually said, laughing the bright laugh of a kid that’s just come. 

“You’re welcome?” Hunter responded hoarsely, pushing himself off the counter and off of Justin’s prone body. “Yeah, that wasn’t what I expected to happen, but I’m not complaining.” He shrugged, the _I’m not gay but if you’re cool I’m cool_ shrug he’d never thought he’d have to use in his lifetime. He sat down on the toilet seat again, legs still weak and unreliable. 

Justin stayed against the counter, the visible segments of muscle in his stomach contracting and expanding with his every labored breath. His eyes, darkened from their crystal clear ocean color to mintier, earthier neargreen, swept over Hunter. It was a calculated look, heavy lidded and careful. 

Hunter squirmed underneath it, shifting. He realized his dick was still hanging out, soft and sticky and spent and pale against the dark of his pants. He tucked back in and zipped up, his eyes downcast so that he didn’t have to hold the intensity of Justin’s gaze. 

“You’re not freaked out?” Justin said then, quietly. He stood up, taking a step which was all it took to bring them almost flush again. The space between the toilet and the counter was filled with their bodies combined, but it felt to Hunter like it was mostly occupied by Justin, the vastness of his golden sweeping lines of skin and bone and muscle. His breath caught, because even facing him like this, naked and with come on his belly, Justin was attractive. 

“No,” Hunter said, swallowing. “I’m not.” 

“What about if I told you that I wasn’t expecting it to happen either, but I wanted it to?” Justin said, voice so low it sounded more like a scrape. His hand reached out, and stopped just short ot touching Hunter’s unkissed lips. Then it dropped back down to his thigh. 

The words hung there, stuck in the close, toowarm air that smelled like sex. “Oh,” Hunter said, not quite able to wrap his head around it. Justin Timberlake, quickly ascending star of the swim team, perfectly fabricated from the materials it takes to be popular and well liked and fawned over by the type of high school girls high school boys want to fawn over them. Justin, with his blonde curls and straight smile and resemblance to a greek statue, _not expecting_ him, but _wanting him._ It was supposed to change things, but it didn’t. 

He cleared his throat. “I’d be surprised, but not freaked out.” 

Justin’s eyes slid shut for a second, and that white smile flashed to his face and caught light. “Cool.” 

“Cool,” Hunter echoed, the sound of blood pounding still deafening in his ears. 

“So, I’ll see you at the meet tomorrow?” Justin asked, making a fist and gently thudding it against Hunter’s shoulder. 

“Yeah man. See you at the meet.” 

Hunter unlocked then stumbled out of the bathroom, the taste of Justin’s unclean still new, perfect, and not enough on his tongue.


End file.
